Sunday, November 13, 2016

When the promise of change promises a climate of fear, who will I be?

So, being on the "losing" side of anything sucks. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows that there will be sore losers, accepting losers, and every other kind of loser in between. And everyone should know that there will be equally be sore winners--people who cannot see the losers' points of view.

Some of us are scared--even just to express ourselves. Some of us fear backlash against ourselves, our children, our families, and our livelihoods--just for being who we are. Some of us feel compelled to hide who we are, as we have never had to do before.

This past week has been difficult for many. Election cycles can be very ugly, and in America, they seem to go on forever. This cycle was the ugliest in my lifetime. And the ugliness of it made it seem longer than usual.

Most people on the "winning" side are not bigoted. They are not homophobic. They are not sexist. They aren't promoting discrimination, or inequality. They are not the voices of the ugliness, and I think they are genuinely confused by the idea that people on the "losing" side want to hold them accountable for their votes.

It doesn't seem fair. We all have a right to a secret ballot. We all have a right to cast that ballot based on our own values, beliefs, and financial standpoints. Those of us who not only consider voting to be a right, but a responsibility take that responsibility seriously.

Our president-elect said some pretty awful things over the last 18 months. He called people names. He promised to deport people. He promised to ban people. He promised to help overturn legal protections for American citizens (and taxpayers) who already feel vulnerable. He denied science. He said things that encouraged his supporters to be violent--and offered them legal assistance if they needed it. He promised many things, that, for many of us, sounded either extremely frightening, or extremely vague.

He promised to "make America great again." He promised to bring back jobs. He promised to restore industries. He promised to make us all safer. He promised to improve our standing on the world stage. He promised to turn Washington upside down, and gut the "establishment." He promised to put an end to the hold that money and special interests have had on our government for decades. He promised his supporters--many who are angry and feel marginalized--that he would make their lives better.

He made a lot of promises. All politicians do.

Many of his supporters like the way he talks. He tells it like it is. He says what he means. He isn't politically correct. They relate to him. He looks like them. He's different from everyone else. He's an outsider.

Here's the thing--if he means what he says, why shouldn't some of us feel threatened by some of the promises he made? If he means what he says, did he not mean those promises?

Now, some people are saying that he didn't really mean all the bad things. I think most of us who feel concern truly hope so. On the other hand, some of his supporters are using his words as a mantle in which they can wrap themselves as they let other vulnerable, threatened and marginalized Americans know they are unwelcome, and they are in danger.

I am a middle class, white heterosexual woman, with a roof over my head, health insurance, and with no religious affiliation. Aside from the concern about access to women's health care being threatened--not just abortion--I should have nothing to fear.

But I do.

Three years ago, I moved from a large Midwestern city to the upper south. I moved from a state that has teeter-tottered from red to blue and back, over and over.

In the city, I canvassed neighborhoods during the Kerry/Edwards campaign. I donated small amounts of money to the Obama campaign, and this year, to the Clinton campaign. As an adult, I have always been proud to support candidates who champion social justice, empathy for others, and support systems for those who need it. I have supported candidates who protect human rights, women's rights, reproductive rights, and equality.

I have been proud to use my voice, even though it has always been a small one. I have never been the person who goes to rallies or protests. I have never been the person who runs for election. I have never been the person able to donate enough money to end up at one of those fundraiser dinners we all hear about.

I have been the person who writes about my life, and my experiences in relation to current events. I have written about women's rights and inequality. I have written about social injustice, in relation to race and gender. I have written about terrorism, gun safety legislation, and discrimination. And many things in between. I have tried to view issues from as many perspectives as I am able.

I have been the person who tells others who I am on social media, but I have never disrespected anyone for disagreeing with me, only for doing so disrespectfully. I have never made my political or religious views a part of my professional life, and have never pushed them in inappropriate contexts.

Even after this past week's election, I believed--without reservation--that was who I always would be. I know that my views aren't the same as all of my friends. I have never asked anyone their political or religious affiliation before deciding to be friends with someone. It would never occur to me to do so. If my heart meets yours, and we click, that's always been the only thing that matters to me.

But, I have been put on well-meaning warning. I have been counseled that in this new place, my voice can, and probably will hurt the people I love--especially my daughter. I have been told that if her friends' parents become aware of my views, and how vocally I express them, my daughter will potentially face social ostracism. She won't be invited to play, to attend birthday parties, etc. When she wants to become involved in activities and the community around her, she might be shunned. If she is witness to something nefarious and tries to help shut it down, all of the same is likely to apply, and little to no good will come from it.

I grew up in a home gripped by the iron fist of domestic violence, emotional, and sexual abuse. Within that iron fist, I was conditioned--conditioned to keep my mouth shut. I was conditioned to go along. I was conditioned to survive. I was conditioned to only breathe when I felt safe to do so. I was conditioned to be a prisoner without chains, bars or locks, but a prisoner all the same.

So, this warning cuts deeply into my spirit. Of course, I would never want to cause harm or grief for my loved ones. And I know that even with the best of hopes, dreams and intentions about making the world a better, safer and more place for everyone, none of us wants to be the kid alone at the lunch table. None of us wants to be the girl who doesn't get invited to the dance, or accepted onto the school dance squad. We all want to be invited to the party.

My heart is broken. It is split between the desire to soldier on, and raise my daughter to be so empathetic and aware of right and wrong, that she will stand up for those ideals in the face of any obstacle or situation, and the understanding of how much it hurts to be on the outside of everything and never wanting that for her because of something I have done.

It feels like there should be someplace I can land that doesn't require me to push myself down into the ground again. It feels like there should be a place where we can find the other people like us, and we can overcome the iron fists of our community together.

I know I am an idealist. I know everything we are, puts us at risk. I have never had many friends, and I have never required any of them to be anything other than who they are. Every friend I have had, I have held dear, regardless of their political or religious affiliations. I have always chosen to be friends with people who are kind, genuine in spirit, and who accept me for who I am.

I know it's a mean old world. I know that there are wolves out there waiting to tear away at all of us in different ways, and for different reasons. I know that we all have to develop the right skin, for the right paths. But I also know that if we hide who we really are from people, we can never be certain what they are hiding from us. If we are never true to who we are, we are never true friends to anyone.

Maybe that is what I teach my daughter. Maybe that is what I need to remember, myself.

My fears are not equal to those of others, about whom terrible promises were made. I can only feel a fraction of the threat that immigrants, Muslims, members of the LGBTQ community, and people of color feel. But the fraction of fear that I feel about being in your corner helps me understand your fear in ways I did not before.

We cannot allow fear to force us from each others' corners.